


An Illicit Affair

by Soledad



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon characters in Victorian settings, F/F, F/M, Multi, Victorian erotica
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-10-24 00:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: This is a side story to “An Excellent Mystery”, featuring some of the same characters.Basically, Mrs Holroyd receives Dr Sawyer’s diary about her visit to Paris – and about the events that weren’t told in the main story.





	1. Prologue

Notes to the Prologue:  
I’m aware of the fact that there was no such thing as a “Birmingham Constabulary”. I invented it, based on what we saw about the Toronto Constabulary in “The Murdoch Mysteries”, so that I could invent a Chief Constable, someone like Agatha Christie’s Colonel Melchett.

Inspector Bradstreet is actually Inspector Baynes of the ACD canon. I just switched the names because I liked the name Bradstreet better.

For visuals: Mrs Holroyd and Alice Guppy are hijacked characters from “Torchwood” and are played by Heather Craney and Amy Manson, respectively. Colonel Holroyd is ‘played’ by John Barrowman (as he appeared in “Fragments”). Inspector Bradstreet is ‘played’ by Steven Moffat and Mrs Bradstreet, quite logically, bears the features of his real-life wife.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
PROLOGUE**

The funeral of Dr Sarah Sawyer was a quiet and serene affair, despite the fact that nearly the whole of Birmingham Constabulary attended her last rites. She was laid to rest in the ancient burial grounds of her family, at the churchyard of _St Patrick’s_ , with very little actual ceremony. Her parents were dead already, had been for some years, and she had no siblings, thus she was accompanied on her last journey by the people she had worked with during her time as the police pathologist.

And her childhood friends, of course. At least the few of them who had remained friends with her, despite her unusual career choice.

The most influential of those were Mrs Emily Holroyd (née Craney), the wife of Colonel Holroyd, Birmingham’s Chief Constable; and Mrs Susan Bradstreet, heiress of the rich and powerful Vermont family. She was also the wife of _Inspector_ Bradstreet, with whom Dr Sawyer used to work most closely. These two worthy ladies had taken care of the ceremony, so that it would be simple and sombre – just as their friend would have wanted.

It was a sad thing that Sarah Sawyer had to die at such a young age – and that her untimely death had been caused by the very thing she’d loved most: her work. Who would have thought that working in the morgue could be so dangerous?

“One would think it were safe for a doctor if their patients are already dead,” commented Mrs Bradstreet during the wake that was held after the funeral in the Holroyds’ house.

“Not if a patient was wickedly murdered and her skills helped to reveal the murderer,” replied her husband grimly. “We could never have sold the Sanderson murder case, had she not found the proof that old Mr Sanderson had been poisoned with arsenic over a lengthy period of time.”

“And if she hadn't found it, young Mr Sanderson wouldn’t have panicked and wouldn’t have killed her,” pointed out Emily Holroyd bitterly.

“Oh, he’ll hang for it, don’t worry,” promised the Chief Constable. 

Colonel Holroyd was a former soldier and a hero of the Afghan War; a man who took law enforcement very seriously. Even though he still thought that cutting open dead people wasn’t the proper occupation of a well-bred young lady.

“That still won’t make Susan alive again,” replied Mrs Holroyd.

“Or the part of our youth that died with her,” added Mrs Bradstreet. Dr Sawyer’s death seemed to have hit her even harder than Mrs Holroyd; or she simply couldn’t hide her grief as well. The dark smudges under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights. “She was so much more than just a pathologist. She was a fine soul – and a friend.”

“Speaking of which,” Inspector Bradstreet turned to Colonel Holroyd, “have you given thought to a possible replacement, sir? The position can’t remain vacant for long. We need a pathologist; preferably a good one.”

Colonel Holroyd nodded. “I know. I’ve made a few inquiries already. It seems we might be lucky. Doctor Joseph Bell, one of the leading pathologists at the moment, has given up his teaching position in Scotland and is looking for more… _practical_ work. I’ve contacted him and he’s considering taking Doctor Sawyer’s vacated job.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime Miss Hooper can keep running things in the morgue. She may not be a proper doctor, but she’s learned a great deal from Doctor Sawyer in recent years and knows the place like the back of her hand. I intend to keep her as a morgue assistant permanently.”

At this point the two ladies walked away from their respective husbands. They both knew that Sarah _had_ to be replaced – work at the police had to go on, regardless of any personal losses – but it still hurt to hear how their best friend was being dismissed from memory already. 

Of course, the Chief Constable and the Inspector only ever saw the competent pathologist in her. They never actually knew the refined, elegant, intelligent _person_ that she had been.

 _That_ person was known only to Emily Holroyd and Susan Bradstreet. Sarah had been an intensely private person; not even their other lady friends knew her well. Especially as – coming from the country gentry – she belonged to a different social class, too. One that had made discretion an art form.

Mrs Bradstreet excused herself for a moment and left the room to calm her nerves a little. She did not want to show her grief to all these people. Sarah wasn’t the only person who could hide her feelings from the prying eyes. Mrs Holroyd kept playing the generous host, wishing to be done and over with the farce. No-one but Susan and herself did _really_ grieve here. No-one else could truly measure the loss of such a wonderful person.

“Miss Emily?”

A quiet voice interrupted her thoughts. It was her maid; the one who knew her from before her marriage; the only one still calling her _Miss Emily_.

She turned around. “Yes, Alice, what is it?”

Alice Guppy, once a juvenile thief and an intern in then-Emily-Craney’s school for orphaned girls, was much more than just her maid. She was her confidante, her extended hand and her main source of information. She wouldn’t have bothered her in the middle of a social event unless it was something of importance.

“A courier from _Johnston & Sullivan_ has just come,” explained the girl. “He brought a small package for you.”

Mrs Holroyd frowned. _Johnston & Sullivan_ were the best (and most expensive) solicitors in Birmingham who only accepted the richest and most influential clientele. She used their services herself, of course, but couldn’t quite understand what they would want from her now. She didn’t have any ongoing cases with them at the moment.

“Well, where is it then?” she asked impatiently.

But Alice shook her head. “The courier wouldn’t hand it over to _me_ , Miss. He says he needs your signature. It’s for your hands alone.”

For a moment Mrs Holroyd was honestly baffled.

“Perhaps it has something to do with Doctor Sawyer’s death,” suggested Alice. “ _Johnston & Sullivan_ are the executors of her will, aren’t they?”

“They are, but the will has already been opened and read publicly,” said Mrs Holroyd with a frown. “She left everything that didn’t fall under the rules of hereditary law to Miss Hooper; you know that.”

“Perhaps not _everything_ ,” replied Alice slowly, her shrewd little mind clearly working on the possibilities. “Perhaps she left you a keepsake; a small thing no-one else would understand or appreciate.”

Actually, that made sense.

“How big is that package anyway?”

“Rather small, in fact. Not much bigger than an average novel.”

Mrs Holroyd lifted her chin sharply. A _novel_? No; it had to be one of Sarah’s diaries. She’d started writing them when they were both in boarding school and sent them to Emily once they parted ways, to keep in touch. Emily did the same; only that until now she’d believed she had read _all_ of Sarah’s diaries. Why would Sarah hold back one of them?

Eager to find the answer, she hurried down to the hallway where the courier from _Johnston & Sullivan_ was waiting. She signed the delivery book, gave the boy a generous tip and then handed the thick envelope, which was sealed with wax on five different places, to Alice.

“Take this to my bedroom and put it into the secret drawer of my bureau. And Alice… I don’t want _anyone_ to know about this delivery until I have the time to see _what_ it is!”

 _Anyone_ meant Colonel Holroyd, of course, and that nosy manservant of his, Jones. Both showed too much interest for the private affairs of Mrs Holroyd at times; the less they knew the better it was for Emily’s peace of mind.

It was a good thing that she and Jacob had separate bedrooms already.

Alice understood the need for secrecy better than any-one else. She curtseyed briefly and spirited away the small package to safety.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The wake lasted another two hours; perhaps more. Everyone loved Sarah, little though they actually knew her, and there was great requirement for fond remembrance. People gathered on small groups, sharing stories about Sarah – or rather about her work, as almost everyone present was acquainted to the police, one way or another – and it was obvious how much people already missed her.

Especially poor Miss Hooper, whose grief was just as deep as Emily’s own, even though on a different level. Sarah had been her mentor and her benefactor for quite a few years, and the poor woman was fairly overwhelmed by her newfound wealth. 

Small wonder, though Emily, watching the nervous young woman talk to Miss Evans, the clerk of Police Station house Three. For the all but penniless daughter of a deceased pathologist to become the owner of her own house, with a handsome monthly allowance on the side, had to be a big step. One that Miss Hooper had had to make without warning and without ample time to prepare herself for the new and unexpected situation.

Perhaps they ought to invite Miss Hooper into their close-knit group of lady friends, now that she had risen in status due to her inheritance. She would certainly be a useful ally. More useful than many others – than Mrs Stone (née Cooper), to name just one. Emily decided to speak to Susan about it. They were the ones entitled to invite new members to the club, after all.

Besides, Miss Hooper would probably need a lot of moral support if she was going to work with a celebrity like Dr Bell. Famous doctors usually didn’t value their assistants properly; even less so the female ones. Too many men still believed that women were stupid and understood nothing beyond household chores and childcare. Even scientists who ought to have known better fell into this pattern way too easily.

That, or they were afraid of the competition.

At least Jacob Holroyd had recognised Miss Hooper’s invaluable skills and decided to keep her at the morgue. Which was fortunate for Emily, Susan and the other ladies, as the morgue worked with the entire Birmingham Constabulary, not just for Inspector Bradstreet’s station house. Having an ally in the morgue meant that they would remain informed about crucial police issues, despite the loss of Sarah. 

Emily liked to be well-informed, and so did Susan; but they knew they couldn’t count on their respective husbands to tell them anything. Both the Chief Constable and the Inspector believed that they had to protect their wives from the uglier aspects of life.

Emily suppressed a decidedly un-ladylike snort. She had realised early in their marriage that she wouldn’t be able to change Jacob’s mind; but it didn’t mean she would be willing to lead a life in ignorance. There were ways and means to learn what she needed to know; she and Susan mutually helped each other in such matters.

Looking around in the drawing-room she noticed with barely veiled relief that the crowd was definitely thinning now – and not a moment too soon, in her opinion. She’d had enough of the official mourning; she wanted to be alone. Fortunately, within the next half-hour the rest of the visitors left, too, one after another and Jacob, too, retreated to his study to do some overdue paperwork. Sarah’s unexpected death caused a certain level of disturbance in the smooth running of the police force.

Emily remained in the drawing-room to oversee the work of Alice, Jones and Mrs Davies (their cook), who were collecting the used plates, glasses and the remaining food and cleaned up the room. When everything was done, she, too, retreated to her bedroom. Alice helped her out of her dress – oh, the relief of being freed from the confines of a too tightly laced corset! – and into her nightgown and left her alone.

Emily locked her door – she and Jacob rarely shared a bed anyway and he was gentleman enough to understand that she was grieving and wanted to be left alone – and then took out the envelope sent by _Johnston & Sullivan_ from the secret drawer of her bureau. With a fine penknife she removed the seals and unfolded the thick brown paper, eager to see what she had been sent.

As expected, there was a diary inside; one bound in soft, ivory-coloured leather and decorated with hand-painted pink roses in all corners, both on the front cover and the back. The corners were also strengthened with small brass applications, and the spine was covered with ivory lace, a shade or two darker than the leather binding. It even had a small crystal catch fastened to the upper end of the spine and was secured with a narrow silk band threaded through the corresponding small holes in the front and back covers.

All in all, it was a beautiful piece of workmanship, but that didn’t surprise Emily. Sarah had excellent taste and always decorated her diaries with her own hands. Her ink drawings used to be the prettiest at school and often displayed in school exhibitions.

Emily pulled the silk band loose and opened the book. Inside the front cover, there was a pocket of paper lace, and in that pocket stuck a photograph, showing Sarah in front of that steel monstrosity built for the world’s fair in Paris, back in 1889, what was it called again? Ah yes, the _Tour d’Eiffel_!

Therefore whatever this was about, it had something to do with Sarah’s unexpected trip to France two years ago, in the unlikely company of Miss Hooper and the famous detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes. The trip that finally shed light into the decades-old disappearance of Miss Alice Spice and revealed a then-ten-year-old murder case.

Emily put the photo back into its lace pocket and turned her attention to the first page, which seemed to be some sort of personal letter or introduction to the rest. It was written in Sarah’s elegant hand – unlike most doctors, she did have beautiful handwriting.

_My dearest Emily,_

_When you get to read these words, I shall be gone already._

_Please be not cross with me for not telling you about the following events earlier. We have always told each other everything, I know; but I was afraid that – should I reveal this particular secret during my lifetime – you would never look at me the same way again. That I could not have borne. But as I never kept anything from you before, I do not want to keep this from you forever, either._

_This confession is for your eyes only. As much as I love Susan – and you know I do, we have always been like the leaves of a trefoil – she has become a wife and a mother in the traditional sense, and I fear she would not understand what I have done… and why._

_You, however, have always been the bravest, most adventurous and most open-minded of us all. I hope you will understand what motivated me and would not judge me too harshly._

_Yours sincerely,  
Sarah_

Emily turned over the page. The thought of not reading Sarah’s posthumous confession didn’t even enter her mind. In truth, she felt honoured that Sarah would trust her enough to share what seemed to be a somewhat shameful secret. She only wished her friend had trusted her enough to tell her everything while still alive.

The other side of the page was empty, save for another lace pocket. This time it wasn’t a photograph stuck in the pocket but one of Sarah’s little ink drawings. It showed two fashionably dressed women touching their lips together in front of the _Tour d’Eiffel_ , while an equally fashionable gentleman in a top hat was watching them with a dark little smile.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Spoiler warning:** This chapter continues spoilers about the outcome of "An Excellent Mystery", which is still being beta read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Countess Vilma Hugonnai de Szentgyörgy (Sept 30, 1847 – March 25, 1922) was the first Hungarian woman medical doctor. She studied medicine in Zurich, receiving her degree in 1879. She became a care assistant to a professor at a medical school. When Vilma returned to Hungary, as a woman she could not begin her career as a physician because the Hungarian administration refused to recognize her qualification, thus she had to work as a midwife. In 1897 the Hungarian authorities at last accepted her degree and she could start her own practice._ (Wikipedia)  
>  I've twisted her timeline a bit, so that Sarah Sawyer and she would be able to study in Zurich at the same time.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Chapter 01**

As you may still remember, everything began with the ten-year-old case of Alice Spice's mysterious disappearance. When Mr Roberts retired as the Superintendent of _New Street Station_ and Alice's travelling trunk was unexpectedly found in the Lost Luggage office, where it had been sitting forgotten and gathering dust for a decade, together with the suitcase of a certain Mr Alfred Anderson.

You were the one who sent a letter to Mr Spice, Alice's father, who then engaged Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, in the hope that he might solve the mystery surrounding Alice's disappearance. We learned that Mr Anderson was, in truth, Alice's estranged husband, whom she still had not officially divorced at the time when they both vanished without a trace.

Soon thereafter, as you know, Mr Holmes came to Birmingham with Doctor Watson and Mrs Watson. Thanks to his brilliant deductions, Mr Anderson's body was found, buried beneath the coffin of one Miss Josephine Colbert, who had died ten years previously, at _Brandwood End Cemetery_. I was called to examine the body and, with the assistance of Doctor Watson, I found out that Mr Anderson had been murdered by what Doctor Watson called a soft-nosed bullet. As a veteran of the Afghan War he was familiar with such weapons and their devastating effects, of course, and I was most grateful for his assistance.

Due to Mrs Watson's own investigations we learned that Alice had met somebody in France: a mysterious suitor with whom she seemed very happy. I know you did not think very highly of Mrs Watson – you are the strongest-willed person I know, and you do not suffer weakness in others kindly, which is the reason why I never found the courage to tell you the story of my ultimate weakness face to face. But in her quiet, unassuming manner Mrs Watson had managed to learn things from Miss Robinson in _The Grand Hotel_ , and from Mr Spice's parlour-maid at _Hawkhurst Old Place_ that not even Mr Holmes's frightening ability to see through people's lies might have revealed.

At least not so easily and quickly.

I know I don't need to guide you through these events. You were there, after all, and it is due to the efforts of your own maid that we found a name for Alice's mysterious suitor: Philip Louis Adair. As you surely remember, Mr Holmes then masterfully deduced the motivation for and the possible details of Mr Anderson's death. All we needed was solid evidence.

Assuming that Alice still lived with Lord Adair under a false name, Mr Holmes then asked me to travel with him to Paris, where Lord Adair spent the major part of the year, either in the townhouse of his mother's family, the Colberts, or in their villa in Auteuil. We took Miss Hooper with us, as not even I could afford to travel on my own with a gentleman I wasn't related to, regardless of the damage my occupation had already done to my reputation.

I must admit that I was grateful for Miss Hooper's presence. Mr Holmes wasn't a pleasant travelling companion. He spent nearly the whole time in his own thoughts – he called it 'visiting his mind palace' – spoke nary a word to either of us until we reached Paris, and when he did, he was inexcusably rude to poor Miss Hooper. She went in awe of him nonetheless – she tends to be unduly impressed by overbearing gentlemen with forceful personalities.

But enough of this. After a long and exhausting journey, we finally reached Paris, and Miss Hooper and I were both genuinely happy. She because this was the first time she set foot outside Birmingham (save for a few short visits to London) and was full of excited expectations. As for myself, I have always loved Paris. I had been there but a few times before; yet I always felt that I could breathe there easier than anywhere back home. Being just one of the many visitors no-one knew and no-one paid any attention to had been liberating.

The two of us – that is Miss Hooper and myself – only regretted that we had not arrived while the World Fair was still going on. She mourned the attractions she would not get the chance to see – she was particularly interested in the Buffalo Bill Show and the so-called Negro village – and I would have loved to meet artists like Mr Munch, Miss Bonheur, Mr Gauguin or Mr van Gogh in person. Famous investors like Mr Tesla and Mr Edison are known to have visited the Fair, and the American soprano, Miss Sanderson was said to have performed nearly every evening when it lasted.

Of course, as Mr Holmes rightly pointed out, it would have been even harder to find somebody who had been quite successfully hiding for the previous ten years while – next to its already numerous inhabitants – Paris had been additionally populated by many thousands of visitors, all come to see the Fair. Even without these, it seemed a fairly hopeless undertaking, although Mr Holmes appeared to have connections to the French police as well. You see, he is distantly related to a family of name-worthy French painters called Vernet, who seem to have a certain influence in the world of the _bohéme_.

His pan had been, as I learned later, to track down Lord Adair with the help of the French police, and then use his family connections to gain access to his house. Young gentlemen of a certain social standing are known to patronise artists, and in French salons you can meet the most interesting people you would never encounter otherwise.

However, we got unexpectedly lucky. We were visiting the Fair grounds – more precisely the _Galerie des Machines_ ; among other things like music and painting, Mr Holmes showed strong interest in modern architecture – when I spotted Alice Spice in the crowd.

I could barely believe my eyes! She _had_ changed somewhat in the previous ten years, I'll give her that, but not overly so; and I would have recognised her childish pouting everywhere. She was wearing a fashionable (and likely very expressive) walking dress – there could be no doubt that she was doing fairly well for herself.

We could not take the risk of her spotting me, too; thus Miss Hooper was asked to follow her and to find out where she was living at the time. As Mr Holmes quite insensitively put, nobody would notice Miss Hooper in a crowd.

She was hurt almost to tears by that remark, of course. Really, Mr Holmes can be terribly rude at times – and that to a person he expected a favour from, at that! Speak about adding insult to injury… quite literally!

He _was_ right, of course. Miss Hooper _isn't_ the person who would draw immediate attention from _anyone_. Still, it was a very hurtful remark, and I needed all my mediating skills to make him understand that; and to smooth Miss Hooper's ruffled feathers. Men – even intelligent men – seem to believe that they do not have to take the feelings of other people under consideration. Especially if those other people are women.

But I digress. In the end, I managed to persuade Miss Hooper that she would be invaluable for the task; and, as you'll see later, she did an excellent job. Her bland look turned out to be an advantage – this time.

While Miss Hooper was following Alice across Paris, Mr Holmes and I went to the _Sûreté_ , where we were supposed to meet a certain Inspector Lescaut whom Mr Holmes had apparently known from earlier.

I must admit that the man was nothing I had expected. We all know a great many policemen through Susan's husband, but _Monsieur_ Paul Lescaut was something entirely different: a distinguished, elegantly greying gentleman in his mid-forties, dressed according to the latest Parisian fashion, wielding a walking stick that, as I learned later, was hiding a blade within, in case he needed something to protect himself.

We did not meet at the _Sûreté_ itself but in a small café near his office; a café favoured by the upper middle class, where he fit in marvellously. He wasn't quite as tall as Mr Holmes – few men are – but slim and trim and of that indefinable charm many Frenchmen of a certain class possess, with fine, even features and expressive eyes.

He spoke English quite well, too, which made me wonder about his origins and his education. As a rule, Frenchmen are not quite willing to speak our language.

I must confess, my dear Emily, that I felt immediately drawn to him. It was an instanteous attraction that I had not experienced since my unfortunate affair with that fellow student in Belgium, where I was studying medicine.

Of course, I was much older now and could conceal my damnable weakness better. I even managed to concentrate on our actual conversation… more or less. There is nothing better to push any unwanted feelings into the background than discussing the details of a post-mortal examination done on a ten-year-old, mummified corpse.

While I _was_ able to discuss the founds about our murder victim professionally – I _am_ a consummated professional, after all – I could not completely ignore the heat pooling in my lower belly… or the familiar ache in my private parts. It was a feeling I had almost forgotten; it had been so long since felt anything like that the last time. I had been safe among dead bodies and unhewn police constables in the recent years.

What was even worse, Inspector Lescaut did not appear completely unaffected, either. As Mr Holmes later told me, he was a man of all-encompassing interests where ladies were concerned (and presumably fairly successful, too), and his wife did not seem to mind his escapades at all. She was said to have her own… _special interests_ , whatever _those_ were supposed to be. At that time, I did not truly care.

Mr Holmes took immediate notice of the electricity crackling between me and the Inspector, of course. He is a very observant man, after all – and he can be surprisingly discreet if he chooses so. He even warned me that, should I choose to act on my attraction towards _Monsieur_ Lescaut, I must not trust in _Miss Hooper's_ discretion – in which, as we both know, he was absolutely right. Miss Hooper is a good woman, she means well, but her head is full of romantic nonsense; like those cheap novels Alice Spice liked to read.

I wasn't quite ready to admit my own interest for the Inspector just yet, though. Thus I told Mr Holmes, rather coldly, that I do not begin affairs with married men. I actually _believed_ it myself at the moment. Little did I know that fate would make a liar out of me, very soon.

I have already told you in great detail about the dreadful confrontation with Alice and Lord Adair in their villa in Auteuil. I told you how hell-bent the man was to murder me, so that his hideous actions wouldn't be revealed ten years after the murdering of Mr Anderson. I told you how _Madame_ Lescaut, the Inspector's wife, bought us enough time with her dramatic _entrée_ so that Mr Holmes and the Inspector could come to my timely rescue.

However, I never told you much about _Madame_ Lescaut herself. I confess, I was afraid that if I spoke about her more than what was absolutely necessary, my heart would betray me and my shameful secret would be laid open.

For the truth is, my dear Emily, that _Madame_ Julie Lescaut was the first – and so far only – woman I became enamoured with at first sight. And even now, more than a year later, the memory of that which we had together, however briefly, makes me tremble with want.

So let me describe her to you, so that you might imagine the beautiful sight offered to my unexpecting eyes in that moment of dire peril.

She was a petite redhead with very fair skin – I would learn later that she had freckles, which she always concealed masterfully –, delicate features, hazel-green eyes full of mischief and a somewhat large, sensuous mouth. The first time I saw her she was wearing an evening gown of black silk with black lace gloves that reached beyond her elbows.

Many other women would have ruined the dramatic effect of such a bold garment with too much jewellery – she, however, knew it better. A single string of white pearls graced her neck – that was all. She seemed almost naked in the simplicity of her attire, which emphasized the deep coppery shine of her hair and the whiteness of her flawless skin.

It truly was no wonder that men's heads turned to her when she walked by, with desire in their eyes. _I desired her_ by the mere sight of her, even though I had never before felt any interest for my own gender.

But I am getting ahead of myself. I was telling you about how she ran interference to buy us all time. Imagine that picture of delicate loveliness holding a standard issue police pistol, aiming it at a ruthless murderer and not even batting her eyelashes by it. She was amazing!

It also seemed that Lord Adair knew her – only under a different name. She turned out to be an actress – a _comedienne_ and a dancer, to be more precise – who was performing under her maiden name, despite having been married to the Inspector for a decade and a half. No-one would have suspected that she was in her late thirties and a mother of two… not even me, no matter how good I usually am at guessing people's ages.

In any case, as you know when Lord Adair tried to shoot me, Mr Holmes was able to push him in the last moment, and he accidentally hit Alice instead. When Alice died immediately, he promptly shot himself before our very eyes, which surprised me greatly. As I've already told you, I originally thought he would only be using Alice; but I was apparently wrong.

Theirs was a lasting affair of mutual dependence that was, for me, hard to understand. He was ready to kill for her – _had_ already killed once, in fact, even though not with his own hand – and she gave up everything for him: her home, her father, her former life, even her own identity.

Was that what people commonly call _love_ , I wonder? I cannot tell; but for my part I would rather call it obsession – and a rather unhealthy one. One that cost three lives and a great deal of grief for those left behind; namely Mr Spice and Mr Anderson's mother and sister. They are the true losers of this whole tragedy.

But I digress again – forgive me, It is not easy for me to recall those events, even though I am used to dead bodies. Those I work with have never kill themselves in front of my eyes, however – or tried to kill _me_ first.

Sometimes, when I recall those dreadful moments, I wonder if women are truly meant to do all kinds of work men seem to perform so unfazed. If dealing with such ugliness and deliberate evil doesn't harm us much more than it does harm men. If I shouldn't have accepted the life my family had planned for me and been content with it.

But then I remember the Countess Hugonnai, with whom I studied in Zurich, who had to wait many years until she was allowed to work as a doctor yet never gave up – and I feel deeply ashamed for my cowardice, realising how much easier I had with my career choice. Perhaps you were right to call me an opportunist sometimes, even though it hurt me at those times.

In any case, for Mr Homes and the Inspector the case was closed. _Madame_ Lescaut was fairly shaken afterwards – I understand that she doesn't get involved with the work of her husbands as a rule. This case was an exception; the Inspector needed her contacts to the _bohéme_ to get into Lord Adair's house in the first place.

I offered to accompany _Madame_ Lescaut until she recovered from her shock and my offer was gratefully accepted. The Inspector used the phone in Lord Adair's study to call the local post office and send a wire to Miss Hooper's hotel, informing her that I won't be returning for the night. Then Mr Holmes and the Inspector left for the _Sûreté_ , while _Madame_ Lescaut and I called a hansom cab and returned to her house.

It turned out a very nice little house near the Montmartre; and it apparently belonged to _Madame_ Lescaut, not to her husband. She inherited it from her uncle, who used to be a theatre superintendent ad who had introduced her to stage work in the first place. She lived there with her husband, their two daughters – fifteen and eight year old, respectively – and a young woman named Pauline: the governess of the girls who also served as her dresser at the theatre. The family only had one maid, a vivacious girl by the name of Madeleine.

In that particular evening the girls were visiting some relatives outside Paris with Pauline and the maid had her half-day off. So we were undisturbed in _Madame_ Lescaut's boudoir, where I offered to examine her, for she still seemed a little faint.

At first she seemed to hesitate a little, but then she agreed and opened her bodice for me to listen to her heart. She had one of those shorter basque bodices, with a tight fit and a crisp flare over the hips, that can be opened in the front despite being laced up on the back; and when she opened the hidden clasps, the bodice spread in a V-shape, revealing the most beautifully shaped bosom I have ever seen. I must admit that I was trembling when I leaned closer with my stethoscope to listen to her heart – not that I'd have heard much of it over the hammering of my own. While examining her, I caught a whiff of her perfume, which was as delicate and full of underlying sweetness as she was herself – it didn't help much to regain my calm.

In the end, I declared that her heartbeat wasn't much faster than it could be expected after all that excitement and that she had obviously overcome her shock in an amazingly short time.

"I know," she replied amiably; to my somewhat shocked surprise, she made no attempts to close her bodice again. "I only agreed to this examination because I wanted to speak with you about Paul, and I hoped to gain your trust this way."

"Your husband?" I asked, perchance a bit more defensively than I'd have needed. "But I barely know him! This was only the third time that we met and never alone!"

She raised a placating hand. "You misunderstood me, _Docteur_ Sawyer. I am not accusing you of anything; _au contraire_! You see, Paul has a… let's say, widespread interest in women – and I don't mind if he acts on it."

"You don't?" I was more than a little shocked.

She nodded. "I truly do not. You see, I found out as a young girl already that I am drawn to other girls as well as to boys; and as a young _comedienne_ , I had ample chances to discreet affairs with other women."

"And yet you married the Inspector at a fairly young age," said I, and she nodded again.

"Paris might be more _laissez-faire_ towards people who are drawn to their own gender than Her Majesty's Empire; but even here, a respectable woman is supposed to have a family. Besides, I do like men as well; even though I like women a little more. It was just a matter of finding a husband who would accept that."

"And you found it in the Inspector?" asked I.

"I have," said she. "Paul and I met when he was investigating a minor case of thievery at our theatre. My dresser was one of the suspects, although I knew she was innocent – and in the end my trust in her proved to be well-founded. But during the investigation Paul and I came close… _really_ close. So close that we had to wed in a great hurry, as he gave me a baby in a moment of inconsiderate passion."

"Did he know about your… err… _other_ interests?" I tried to ask as delicately as possible.

"Of course," said she. "He found out about it during the investigation. You see, my dresser… well, she did a bit more for me than just dressing me up for my roles."

"And he didn't mind?"

" _Au contraire_ ," suddenly she gave me a wicked grin. "He said it would be fine with him – as long as I were willing to share, should he fancy the third party."

I was truly shocked by the idea. I knew, of course, that such things happened, but that knowledge had been entirely theoretical – until then. I could not find the right answer to that, but as it turned out, I didn't need one. For _Madame_ Lescaut leaned close to me, until her bosom brushed against my cleavage, and whispered into my ear seductively.

"And it seems that this time he's really taken a liking in you. So tell me, _ma petite_ , would you be willing to try walking both sides of the street for a change?"

And she kissed me on the mouth, gently but persistently, until I gave in and allowed her to taste me properly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mrs Emily Holroyd stopped reading – it seemed the diary had reached the end of its first part anyway – and fanned herself with the booklet for a moment. She, too, was well and truly shocked. She knew, of course, that Sarah once had a torrid affair with one of her professors at university, but until know she had believed that said affair – which led to unfortunate events that had left her childhood friend unable to ever carry a child on her own – had also ended Sarah's interest in any kind of love affair for good.

And even if it weren't so, she wouldn't have expected _this_. Sarah had always been an intensely private person, most content with her books and her work; she never gave any sign of interest in men – _or women_ , Emily added in thought, shaken by the new discovery about someone she thought she had known better than anyone else. In fact, Sarah withdrew into herself after the journey to Paris even more than before. What _happened_ there to make her change so much?

Well, there was only one way to find out. Emily turned the page and continued reading.


End file.
